Roses and Mallows
by Slayergirl
Summary: A view of Spike and Joyce's relationship. This is NOT a romance - just a fluffy story. Thanks go to Joss Whedon for the characters.


She sat on the edge of the sarcophagus, swinging her feet like a little schoolgirl. Free of all responsibilities. She smiled at the almost white-blond vampire, taking the glass of wine he held out to her.  
  
"So, how are things?" she asked.  
  
"Okay. Well, okay-ish, anyway," he smiled.  
  
"And the writing?"  
  
"Oh, you know – not much time, really, demons to kill, slayers to deal with," he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. She wagged a reproving finger at him.  
  
"Feeble excuses. You should keep at it. Practice makes perfect!"  
  
He gave her a lopsided smile. "You know, you really remind me of someone."  
  
"Buffy?"  
  
He looked surprised. "Well, yes, I suppose so…"  
  
"You really love her, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, you guessed… anyway, that wasn't what I was going to say," he said, hastily changing the subject.  
  
"Sorry. You were saying?"  
  
"You remind me of my own mother."  
  
"What was she like?" she asked, curious.  
  
"Beautiful, gentle, caring – just like you," he said, gallantly.  
  
She laughed. "Seriously, Spike."  
  
"Seriously. She was beautiful, gentle, and caring. But she also had a way of getting me to do what she wanted. I adored her. My whole world seemed to fall apart when she died – I was only – oh, fifteen. About the same age as Dawn. Really shook me up. Suppose I never really got over it."  
  
She reached out to touch his hand. "That's why you looked after the girls when I had the tests done?"  
  
He nodded. "Yeah. I remember how it felt. The emptiness inside. Feeling there's no one there for you who'll understand. Y'know."  
  
"I'm glad they had you." She sipped her wine slowly. "What happened to your mother? If you don't mind me asking."  
  
"Influenza. Not a killer any more, but it was then. They kept me away from her. Never even got to say goodbye," he said quietly.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes filling with tears.  
  
He swirled his glass of wine, staring into the ruby liquid. "'S all right." There was a brief silence.  
  
"So, Buffy."  
  
"Uh – more wine? I…"  
  
"You're in love with her."  
  
"Think I've got some biscuits, maybe…"  
  
"Sit down."  
  
"Uh…" he sat down, feeling even more like a son to her than ever.  
  
"You're in love with her," she repeated.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How much?"  
  
He gulped. "Can't measure it."  
  
"Try."  
  
"I'd die for her. Live for her. Protect her till the end of time if I could, if she'd let me. I shadow her on patrol, always, just in case she gets into trouble. But she doesn't love me, and she never will. So don't worry."  
  
"I can't help worrying. I'm her mother, it's natural. I just don't want to see my little girl hurt."  
  
"Neither do I!" he replied fervently.  
  
Her face softened. "I know. But after Angel…"  
  
"Well, I'm not Angel, am I? Don't have a soul to lose. I can't hurt her, with the chip…"  
  
"And without the chip?"  
  
He was silent for a moment, then said softly, "I would never hurt her. With or without the chip. I love her, Joyce. Simple as that. But God help anyone that does hurt her. They'll pay for it, even if it kills me."  
  
She smiled. "I thought so. I still have my reservations – you know, the whole never having children or being able to go into sunlight thing – but at the end of the day, I guess it's up to her. She's not a little girl any more. And – well, Giles did let slip once that slayers don't exactly have long lives. I guess she should be allowed to make her own decisions, have a good time while she still can… Look, what I'm trying to say, and saying very badly, is, if you two do – you know – I won't get in your way."  
  
"Not going to happen, Joyce," he sighed.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," she smiled. "I'm her mother, remember? I think there may be something there. But she's been hurt so much. I think she tries not to see it. Pretend it's not there. It's not healthy, but what else can she do? She's probably scared you'll go all Angel on her…"  
  
"Like I would," he scoffed.  
  
"I know that, you know that – maybe, even deep down, she knows it. But – well, maybe it panics her. Don't give up on it just because she's in denial. Actually," she smiled, "I think you might be good for her."  
  
"Good – for her?"  
  
"Yes. You tell it like it is. You don't cosset her. But you're still there beside her, supporting her – while being bluntly honest with her at the same time. She needs someone like that. Someone who's strong enough to stand up to her. She's wilful, sometimes, and stubborn. She needs someone who'll stand up to her, who can match her. Angel, Riley – they were too compliant. Just giving in to her. I can't see you doing that. And I think that's what she needs. Someone she can have a good fight with, but still be on good terms with afterwards. Someone she can trust."  
  
"Right… you know, I really wasn't expecting to hear that from you?"  
  
She laughed. "Don't suppose you were. Anyway, lecture over. I didn't really come here to lecture, I came to bring you this." She handed him a beautifully bound book  
  
"What's this?"  
  
"Shakespeare's sonnets. You said you wanted to read them again."  
  
"Wow – thanks!" He opened the book up reverently. "What's this?" he asked, showing her a card made with pressed flowers.  
  
"Oh – that. It' just a bookmark. Well, not just a bookmark. It was a present from someone. They're some of my favourite flowers."  
  
"White roses I can understand… but what's this one?" he asked, indicating a purple flower.  
  
"It's a mallow. They grow in marshes and boggy places – wild flowers. Pretty, isn't it? I sometimes get them from that big flower shop in the mall – they get them specially for me, they know I love them." She smiled softly, as if remembering something.  
  
"Mm, nice colour." He wasn't sure what else to say. "Better take it with you."  
  
"No, it's okay. It goes with the book. Just enjoy it… anyway, I'd better be getting home."  
  
"I'll walk you back."  
  
"No, really, it's okay."  
  
"Joyce, it's dark. You shouldn't be out after dark, you know that, it's not safe! I'll feel better about it if you let me walk you home."  
  
"Oh, okay then," she laughed. They laughed and joked all the way back to the house. "I wish I could ask you in, but…"  
  
"I know, Buffy would go up the wall. Don't worry, it's not a problem."  
  
"Okay, then. Night!"  
  
"Goodnight, Joyce." He returned to the crypt and the little book of sonnets.  
  
That had been the last time he'd seen her, he thought. He'd been shocked to hear of her death. His first thought had been for Buffy and Dawn. His heart went out to them – how lost they must be feeling! He'd do anything he could for them to make it easier…  
  
Then he thought of his own loss. Joyce, sitting in his crypt, laughing and joking with him, talking to him like a real person, not just the evil vampire all the time. She'd been his friend.  
  
More than that, she'd been his mother. Well, in a way.  
  
He wanted something to put on her coffin. Not anything big, or ostentatious. Just something for her. 'Not for the others to see and admire, just for her. Something that would mean something to her,' he thought, as he paced through the dark streets. 'Just as well it was late opening…'  
  
He went into a pawnshop with a necklace he'd found out from his collection in the crypt. 'Not going to steal for her. She wouldn't approve…' He came out with money jingling in his pocket.  
  
'Next stop – florist's,' he thought. He looked at the bouquets on display, disconcerted. They were all bright and flashy; not what he'd had in mind. He wanted something rather more – understated.  
  
"Can I help you?" asked the shop assistant.  
  
"Uh – yeah. Um, I'm looking for something understated, sophisticated. For a funeral," he said. "Price doesn't matter."  
  
"Someone special?" The shop assistant put on his sympathetic-to- customers face.  
  
"Uh – yeah," he said, trying to blink away the sudden tears. "She was – well, not actually my mother, but – my mother died when I was young, and – well, she was like a mother to me. I just want something – special for her. As special as she was to me…" 'God, how pathetic you are…'  
  
"Of course, sir, of course. Understated and sophisticated…"  
  
"Do you have any mallows?" he asked suddenly. "She liked them. I think she bought them from here, sometimes…"  
  
"Oh – for Mrs. Summers, is it? Yes, we have some mallows at the moment. Beautiful colours – one of the colours of mourning, purple," said the assistant helpfully.  
  
"Yes. And – maybe some white roses? She liked them, too."  
  
"Excellent choice, sir, couldn't do better myself!" gushed the assistant obsequiously. "White roses for purity of the soul, such excellent taste and sensitivity…"  
  
"Uh – just her favourites," he quavered. "That's all, I think – just, you know, in a bunch. Nothing too fancy. Liked cottage bunches…"  
  
"Very well, sir, right away – take a seat, I'll see to it right now."  
  
The assistant came back a few minutes later, carrying the bunch. It was exactly what he'd imagined.  
  
"Roses and mallows…" he wondered aloud to himself, laying the flowers on her coffin in preparation for her funeral. "Mallows – marsh flowers…? Does that make the marshmallows?" 'She'd have appreciated that,' he thought, remembering his constant pleas for marshmallows in his hot chocolate, and how she'd teased him about it, but always given in. 'Yes, she'd like that!'  
  
"Brought you some flowers," he said to the coffin, imagining her face. "Hope you like them. White roses and mallows. I bought them specially." He stood there a moment, tears in his eyes. "Goodbye, little mother!" he whispered, before slipping away into the night. 


End file.
